


Originals & Outtakes

by Cyanide_n_Cynicism



Series: Tell Me What it's Like to Burn [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cats, F/F, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter is not oblivious, Harry is the quiet kid, M/M, Mentions of War, Multi, Other, Soviet Russia, Violence, War, cats named after people, gay couples omg!, harry finds friends, he is also having none of your shit, lots of characters had so much potential, mentions of the Red Scare, mentions of the Vietnam War, not necessarily by people, platonic affection!, straight couples omg!, there will be, these Russians ain't having none of your stiff upper lip nonsense, violence against animals, we also talk about casual violence, we talk about our feelings like adults in this family, we're going to explore that, we're not there yet but trust me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyanide_n_Cynicism/pseuds/Cyanide_n_Cynicism
Summary: The original story, the first re-write, and what is likely to be many, many outtakes.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Original Female Character(s), Harry Potter & Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Tell Me What it's Like to Burn [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823743
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Tell Me What it's Like to Burn (the og)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is based on this...
> 
> "Golden child,  
> Lion boy;  
> Tell me what it's like to conquer.
> 
> Fearless child,  
> Broken boy;  
> Tell me what it's like to burn."  
> \--oh darling, even rome fell // p.s. (via madzie-bane)
> 
> Five-year-old Harry runs a little farther, a little faster, and takes a few more turns while escaping his cousin.  
> Another what-if story that follows Harry Potter through life. It's about the choices we make, the love we find in unexpected places, gardening, cultural differences, war, and cats.  
> I couldn't find it, so I decided to write it. (The og)
> 
> (Last chapter edit: 12/29/19)

Our story begins with a magical little boy left on the normal doorstep of a normal house owned by a normal family in the middle of a cold November night. You might recall how this continues. A tall, thin woman wanders out to collect the milk bottles in the early morning, nearly trips, and shrieks at her discovery. The family takes him in, because what else are they supposed to do? The boy proceeds to grow up in a cupboard under the stairs, the smallest bedroom, a magical castle, and a tent while amid a magical war. He sacrifices himself for a school full of children, and when he, shockingly, survives, he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. Fighting has been his entire life, you see? This is not that story. Our story begins the same, with the doorstep and the woman and the cupboard. It continues a bit differently from there, and this has consequences.

Our story starts with a magical little boy in a cold, dark cupboard. It had been hours since the woman had shoved him in there and he'd long since stopped crying. It hadn't accomplished anything but making his head hurt more. Every time he drifted off to sleep, he'd jerk awake again, thinking he'd heard screaming and seen a bright light burning through the air. The first few times, he woke up wailing, but then the large man would bang on the door and yell at him. It shocked him so much the first few times that he'd hiccuped himself into silent sniffling. This vicious cycle continued for about a week before Harry learned to keep quiet. The only respite was a brief visit each day from the woman who would clean and feed him.

The routine continued for weeks, and then months, and eventually years. The hitting started when Harry was about two. It began with a few slaps upside the head. In the years that followed, he was beaten with hands and fists, with belts and frying pans and feet. He healed, faster and faster he healed until it took him less than a day to fix a few broken bones. It was another example of his freakishness, and it made his relatives angry. The pain bought him the clarity that came with age, and after every beating, Harry could feel himself changing. The bones and skin healed correctly, leaving nought but many mottled scars behind, but there was something wrong about them. With every rending of flesh and bone, the dark and cold of the cupboard left its mark. The blood, tears and vomit that dripped on the floor contained his innocence and naivety.

Even when everything healed correctly, Harry still ached. It seemed like he was always cold, inside and out. By the age of four, Harry was a very apathetic child. His green eyes had dulled, from the sparkling jade that glowed with life, into a very different colour. They were the green of the sky during a summer storm. It was the kind of tempest with boiling clouds crackling with lightning, a torrential downpour that flooded fields, with howling winds strong enough to render trees to splinters. He'd noticed, of course, that people had a hard time looking him in the eye, but he didn't know what he looked like. For all that Harry was very self-aware, he was mostly oblivious to any other emotion but the kind that would hurt him, like anger. It may have started as fear, but it was anger that made his relatives hurt him. It was anger that allowed them to keep him ignorant. Ignorant of his parents, his lineage, and even his name. Until Aunt Petunia had to send him to school, that is. At school, he learned many things, his name among them. He learned how to curve his grades so that he wasn't better than Dudley and how to keep his teachers from being suspicious. By the middle of May, Harry had fallen into a new routine, but not for long.

It was just after school, and Harry was sprinting as fast as his little legs could carry him. Dudley and his friends were right behind him and gaining. That wasn't surprising; they were better fed and better treated than he was. Poor Harry hadn't eaten since that piece of toast Aunt Petunia had given him for breakfast. His cousin had stolen his lunch again, and Uncle Vernon left more than a few bruises on Harry the day before that hadn't healed yet. He was sore and hungry, and he'd taken a turn somewhere, and now he was lost. _That's just lovely_ , Harry thought to himself, using one of Aunt Petunia's favourite words. In his opinion, anything that his aunt thought was 'lovely' was not, in actuality, lovely. Her horrid, floral obsession or Dudley's artwork on the fridge were prime examples.

He had run a little farther than usual in his bid to escape, turning down an unfamiliar alley. Checking the street sign as he sailed past told Harry he was somewhere called Windsor Avenue. All the twists he'd taken had bought Harry a little time, so he decided to hide on the other side of a row of hedges. Trying to stifle his laboured breathing with his hand, he listened for the slap of trainers on the road and kept still. Black spots were swimming in his vision. His stomach was churning, and he felt sickly and weak. After several minutes, hearing nothing but distant shouts and his erratic heartbeat, Harry let himself breathe freely, gasping for air.

"Now what made you come tearing in here like that, young man?" a musical voice asked. If it hadn't been so crucial that he remain quiet, always, Harry would have screamed. As it was, he felt his heart skip a few too many beats to be healthy. Whipping his head around so fast made the spots in his vision come back with a vengeance. So, it took Harry a moment to see who had spoken to him.

The voice belonged to a tall, willowy woman standing in a beautiful garden. From what Harry could see with his terrible eyesight, she appeared dressed in an oversised button-up tucked haphazardly into a pair of worn-out denims. Her light blonde hair was braided messily, and strands of it were sticking to the sweat on her face and neck. Even looking as she did, she exuded an air of grace and elegance. _Aunt Petunia would hate her_ , Harry thought.

"Er," he stammered, snapping out of his musings. "I was running away from my cousin, ma'am," Harry finished politely. Aunt Petunia was always scolding him to be polite. He couldn't see the woman's expression through his blurred vision, but Harry thought he saw her delicate brow furrow.

"Oh?" she hummed. "Why would your cousin be chasing you?" The boy struggled to find an answer that wouldn't alarm her before deciding on the truth.

"He's a bit of a bully," Harry told her flatly.

"Do his parents know he bullies you?"

"Yeah," he shrugged, "they say it builds character." _Whatever that means._

"Well then," the woman huffed, "if it builds _character_! Honestly, this country," she scoffed as she flowed smoothly towards him around her plants. As she finished her sentence, it occurred to Harry that she didn't sound the same as anyone he knew. His relatives tried to appear upper class by speaking clearly and using big words he didn't understand. The way she said her o's, a's, and y's was long, while most other letters were short or nonexistent. She softly rolled her r's in a way that reminded him of a cat's purr.

With swift movements, she skillfully collapsed in on herself until she was sitting on her haunches in front of him. Quick as a viper, her slim fingers gripped Harry's chin firmly. He flinched and squinted his eyes shut, preparing for the pain that didn't come. Instead, his head was gently turned side to side, while the woman inspected his scratches and bruises. When she was done she tsked in disapproval. As soon as her hands were off his face, Harry's eyes popped open.

Now that she was closer, his eyes could clearly see her face. It was tilted down, inspecting his hands while she held his tiny wrists. She had green eyes a few shades lighter than his, with little wrinkles around the corners. Her nose was thin and gently sloped down her face, a little like his own does. Her cheekbones were similar as well; high and sharp. The rest of the woman's features were all delicately curved, matching her lithe form. She was different from anyone he knew, and for some reason, she felt safe. He was abruptly shaken from his thoughts when the woman stood up, still holding one of his wrists.

"You need cleaning up," she tsked again. "And food, and tea!" she declared vehemently. Before Harry could protest, he was bustled inside the little blue house and straight into the kitchen. He wasn't able to react before she picked him up and gently set next to the sink. What followed was the closest thing to a proper scrub he'd ever had. Unlike Aunt Petunia, who used either scalding hot or freezing cold water, this woman used warm water. She scrubbed him gently, but firmly, taking care not to hurt him too much.

One task over with, the blonde pulled out a white box from under the cabinet and put it next to Harry on the counter. When opened, he saw plasters, bottles, cotton balls, and bandages. Opening one of the bottles, she held a cotton ball to the opening and tipped the bottle until it was soaked.

"This will sting, so hold still" she warned, before dabbing at the scrapes on his face. It did sting, and he hissed sharply through his teeth. Finishing up, she moved on to the rest of his scratches, mainly on his elbows, knees, and hands. "Some of these are older and deeper, so they may scar," she informed him. Harry shrugged, not really bothered. After all, he had many scars, what was a few more? By the end, it felt like he was covered in plasters. He still ached, but it felt different; more like healing than hurting.

Picking him up off the counter, the woman shifted him over to a barstool. Making sure he had settled, she then turned to open the fridge. Trying to keep himself calm in this strange situation, Harry observed his surroundings. He sat at a bar shaped like a backwards 'L,' facing a wall with a refrigerator and a stove. To his right, on the other wall, was the kitchen sink with a window that overlooked the back garden. A screen door led out to a small patio and a path through the garden.

Directly behind him were two doors, one of which looked like it hid a bathroom. To his left was a big archway where he could see the front door, a staircase, and the living room. Everything was bright and airy, decorated in refreshing blues, greens, and whites. Sunlight came in from many open windows, seeming to bounce and play over every surface. There weren't as many plants as there were outside, but it was close. Harry turned his attention back to the strange woman who helped him.

She was a whirlwind of activity; cleaning, slicing, and chopping, every action was completed with a flourish as she almost seemed to dance around the kitchen. She hummed a tune she appeared to make up on the spot, throwing in words from different languages ostensibly at random. The entire experience was wild and breathtaking; so different from his normal life.

"Thank you, ma'am," Harry said as a plate of fruit and a glass of water were set in front of him. Feeling overwhelmed, he nibbled on his food and took a sip of water.

"Petrovna Anoushka Volkovna," she corrected, "and you are welcome." Harry was confused, and it must have shown clearly because the woman elaborated. "My name is Anoushka, not ma'am. If that is too hard, you may call me Anya," she told him. His manners kicked in about then, and Harry realised he needed to introduce himself.

"Pleased to meet you Ann-, Anoo-, Anya," Harry finally settled on. "My name is Harry James Potter."

"Pleased to meet you," Anya agreed. They sat in silence for a bit, Anya standing with her own plate of fruit, both of them eating and observing each other. The calm and quiet was broken by a large amount of fur throwing itself onto the counter between them. What he saw was the biggest, most mangled cat Harry had ever seen, right in front of his face. It was almost as big as he was and it looked like it wanted to eat him! Noticing that Anya was still delicately munching on her fruit, not alarmed in the slightest, Harry relaxed a little.

"His name is Rasputin," she supplied. "Because it looks like the world tried very hard to kill him and just made him ugly instead." Harry agreed that it looked like something had tried to kill the cat; many times. Poor Rasputin was missing all of one ear and half of the other, half of his tail, and his right foreleg. His left eye was milky white while the other, which was blue, seemed to look deep into Harry's soul. His fur was a mottled mess of calico that stuck up like he'd been electrocuted at some point. The cat also wore a permanent sneer because he was missing part of his upper lip. It was very intimidating, but also a little sad.

Mrs Figg taught him what to do with unfamiliar cats, so he loosely presents his hand like she showed him and lets Rasputin sniff him. It doesn't take long before he's rubbing against Harry's hand. He obliges the cat, petting him and scratching him gently under the chin. They carry on a while like this, the three of them — two in silence and one that purred like an engine. The peace ends when Harry realises the time and excuses himself to go home. He leaves feeling much better than when he arrived, with an open invitation to come back any time.

It takes half an hour to walk home. Back at Privet Drive, no one has noticed Harry's absence. He quietly slinks into his cupboard, no one the wiser to his small adventure and brief reprieve. _The day didn't start all that well,_ Harry thought to himself as he lay on his cot, _but I think it ended okay._ Drifting to sleep, he's at peace for the first time he can remember.


	2. The Hypatia Athenaeum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a boy explores and discovers that he may not be as alone as he'd thought. (the re-write)

Counting the breaths he took was the only way to keep time in the cupboard. The only sounds were his breathing and the slow, steady waltz of his pulse. He inhaled, he exhaled, creating eddies in the air. _In... and out_ , languid, like an ocean tide. A spider scuttled it's way across his foot, and he watched it lazily, eyes long since adjusted to the darkness. It had been two hundred and sixteen thousand, five hundred and twenty breaths since his latest beating, not accounting for sleep. Uncle had likely broken his arm, and perhaps a couple of ribs. _In... and out._ Of course, they had recovered already, which was just another example of his "freakishness." He could recall what life was like when he healed as "good, normal" people did. They stopped trying to make him work after he intentionally ruined everything he touched, but it was not without consequence. The past was a haze of different sorts of pain-from going without food, from Uncle's fists and Cousin's kicks, from Aunt's sharp words and a solid skillet.

_In... and out._

Bruises had bloomed across his weak flesh like a field of flowers. _Reds, blues, purples, yellows, greens-how pretty they look, painting his skin like a canvas._ His fragile bones _cracked,_ and his joints _popped._ He screamed until his throat and lungs ached, and he coughed up blood on Aunt's pristine kitchen floor. _Breathe in... and out._ The worst part was the healing afterwards. Weeks would pass before his bones _snapped_ back into place. As far as anyone could tell, everything went back where it was supposed to be, clean and precise. He was the only one who knew anything was unusual In the places where his body mended itself was something extra, something _strange_. It felt like the shadows of his cupboard had seeped in and stayed there-healing in and around the jagged seams. Hot lifeblood would leak out, and the chill would creep in.

_In... and out._

To avoid suffering, he learned how to blend in and diminish his presence. He'd be in the same room and Uncle's beady little eyes would skip right over him. Over time, he recovered more quickly. His blood and bones would snap back into place like a rubber band, _again_ , and _again , and_ ** _again_**. _Breathe in... and out._ The frost and shadows slithered in faster and _faster_ until he couldn't escape them. His body temperature rose, his pulse slowed, and his emerald green eyes became shadowed. Sharp pains faded to a dull, constant ache; no matter what he did, he always felt cold. A thin, moth-eaten blanket and Cousin's old clothes didn't do much to keep him warm.

A shiver travelled its way across his skin in a wave of goosebumps. He kept still and _breathed_. If his relatives knew he was perpetually cold, it would just give them more ammunition to use against him. Besides, he was used to it at this point in his short life, and the coolness was nothing more than an inconvenience. His discomfort meant nothing because he gave it no meaning. All he had to do was breathe and count.

Seven thousand, five hundred and twelve breaths later, the boy could hear Aunt shuffling out of bed and down the stairs. The cupboard unlocked with a _click_ , but he didn't so much as twitch. Through the door, he heard the faucet turn on with a squeak, running water, and then the snap of a switch moments later. Aunt shuffled into the bathroom to continue her morning routine. Unfolding himself slowly, he took care to open the cupboard door as silently as possible. Cautiously slinking out, the boy looked like a wild animal emerging from its den. He suppressed a grimace at the morning light stabbing his retinas. The cupboard door closed without a sound. He stepped softly through the kitchen; the air permeated with the scent of fresh coffee. Slipping into the rear garden and through a hole in the fence was done smoothly. He would return to the house late in the evening, just as unnoticed as when he left.

*******

The boy began his wanderings at the tender age of three when Aunt threw him outside for some perceived fault. It wasn't the first time she'd done this, and it wouldn't be the last. At that point, he knew the yard and most of Surrey like the back of his hand. Unfortunately, it hadn't been tricky for his relatives to convince almost everyone in Little Whinging that he was the worst sort of delinquent. The scar on his forehead crackled like lightning down his face and over his eye. With his sharp features and burning gaze, he looked dangerous. He habitually sported a split lip and some bloody knuckles from Cousin, which didn't help matters. Without anyone to talk to, he decided to entertain himself by wandering farther. And farther. And farther. Every day his range grew, and so did his knowledge. He began leaving the house of his own accord, every morning. In his wanderings, he _discovered_ things- _freakish_ things.

Things that reminded him of himself and made the shadows under his skin writhe. Too-long shadow creatures with limbs too unnaturally bent, moving fluidly from one alley to the next, watching with hollow eyes. Animals - cats, ravens, crows - watched and followed him intently, almost knowingly. He encountered still ponds with nothing on the surface, too deep to see the bottom. Buildings that dripped with police tape, always closed for construction, faceless bodies peering through the broken windows. In an old abandoned graveyard, he found what looked like a large black dog made of shadow.

There was a bookshop on a corner that never sold any books. It was run by a man who looked like an adult cherub. There was a woman all in black who walked down the street at the same time every evening. Dressed like a classy business-woman, she'd quirk her blood-red lips in a smile from underneath her floppy sunhat and give him a little wave whenever she saw him. He followed distant lights that sang to him in eerie, breathy voices in the forest by a park. 

He'd once meandered his way far enough that the only thing as far as the eye could see was rolling hills covered in thick grass. The wind howled and screamed in his ears, sending the tall grass rippling like the waves of an angry sea. Clouds bubbled and boiled with lightning in the toxic, green sky. _It looked a little like his eyes_ , he thought. Rain poured down with such force that it stung his skin. The thunder growled while lightning roared down from the sky, missing him by inches when he danced away. What proceeded was a deadly dance of fire and light, the boy flowing and gliding, the lightning always _just_ missing him. _He wondered how often the sky got to play?_ All these things paled in comparison to the people—the people were just as, if not more, freakish than him.

Interspersed within the "good, normal" folks were those that were just the slightest bit off. Eyes too bright, too hard, reflecting light off their strangely coloured irises. One wouldn't know they were any different from the colourfully clad people on the street. It was their eyes that gave them away. Their eyes that saw too much and their sharp smiles full of teeth like razor blades. They made him think of wild, feral things-ancient things beyond mortal ken. They felt like kindred beings, these creatures that saw too much. They came from everywhere, and he saw one or two in most locations. But the real hub of activity was a small, two-story building that proclaimed itself the Hypatia Athenaeum.

He discovered the library a year into his wanderings, and from then on, he went back nearly every day. He walked in, and it was like one of Dudley's telly shows. Doctor What? No, Doctor Who, that was it! It wasn't only larger on the inside; it was much grander as well. He loved the towering walls of books, the tops of shelves thriving with potted plant life. He loved the glass ceiling and the tall windows that made pools and oceans of liquid golden light on the floor. He loved looking through books about the world he lived in and using the dictionary to learn endless new words. But his favourite part of the library were the people that were strange like him.

They were kind to him, for the most part, some of them weren't keen to be bothered, but others would ask him questions and talk to him, even teach him if they were in a mood for it. He learned many things this way, from languages, cultures and history to how to disable a grown man. They were an eccentric and unique group of people, the regulars at the library. He wasn't all that surprised when he learned magic was real. After all, everyone he knew seemed to have something writhing under their skin just as he did. Well, except his relatives, but they didn't count for much of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry, being stalked by omens of death and shadow creatures: This is fine.  
> Harry, finding a magical library: This explains everything.  
> The library regulars: No it DOESN'T!!!  
> _______  
> I've rewritten this so many times, but this time - for realsies - we have chapter 1!  
> It's Part 1 in the new series I made. Go see!  
> ~Cyn 😊


End file.
